


all the things i never told you

by softestlesbian



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8255962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestlesbian/pseuds/softestlesbian
Summary: “Something I never say,” Jessica says, “like ‘I love you’?” and Trish smiles.She lets her get out of the car and watches her walk away, and if she were a different sort of person, if Jessica were a different sort of person, she’d tell her to be careful.I love you, she thinks instead, because she’s never been afraid to say it; not with Jake, back when they were fifteen and fumbling with hands under each other’s shirts while they were meant to be in class, not with Emma, twenty-one and on top of the fucking world.Not with Jessica, the one (two, three, four) times she’d found herself in her bed over the years. Each memory has stuck itself to the inside of her mind, wallpapered over as people come and go. Underneath the surface, though, she’s there, always there, waiting for her.I love you, she thinks with each pulse of her heart, a reminder of the message that she’s waiting for as well as a helpless romantic plea.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this about six months ago and forgot about it/stopped reading JJ fic, but here it is!! i love the show a lot and i have /so much/ fic to catch up on now, it's fantastic. this is a weird kind of sad thing, probably as canon-compliant as i'm likely to get (and now i have about a million more ideas, ugh). 
> 
> disclaimer: i don't own jessica jones or marvel, obviously.

“Something I never say,” Jessica says, “like ‘I love you’?” and Trish smiles.

She lets her get out of the car and watches her walk away, and if she were a different sort of person, if Jessica were a different sort of person, she’d tell her to be careful.

_ I love you _ , she thinks instead, because she’s never been afraid to say it; not with Jake, back when they were fifteen and fumbling with hands under each other’s shirts while they were meant to be in class, not with Emma, twenty-one and on top of the fucking world.

Not with Jessica, the one (two, three, four) times she’d found herself in her bed over the years. Each memory has stuck itself to the inside of her mind, wallpapered over as people come and go. Underneath the surface, though, she’s there, always there, waiting for her.

_ I love you _ , she thinks with each pulse of her heart, a reminder of the message that she’s waiting for as well as a helpless romantic plea.

It comes not twenty minutes later and she finds herself inexplicably wanting one of the fucked-up pills Simpson had given her as she races into the building, ducking behind corners so she can take the elevator up.  _ Jessica can run faster than this _ , she thinks, bouncing on the balls of her feet, energy crackling in every inch of her.

It’s all going to be over. If it kills her, this is going to be over.

She bursts in and finds Jessica on the ground next to – fuck, next to Albert with his arms cut off,  _ jesus _ . She pushes the thought to the side and ignores the thick, cloying smell of blood in the air to sit down next to her, says, “What can I do?”

Jessica doesn’t answer for a long minute of staring at the body and Trish watches as she collects herself, as every muscle in her body snaps to attention. Her hands are caked with blood, her nails broken and jagged.

“I don’t think he’s here,” she tells her in the voice she only ever uses when she’s trying to hold off her panic for as long as she can. “I don’t – shit, I don’t know where he is.”

“We’ll find him,” Trish promises, and there’s a relief tinged with anxiety that he isn’t here; they can work out an attack plan. She’s suddenly exhilarated. She understands now why Jessica likes this.

They don’t find anything until they do, and Jessica’s entire body deflates for less than a second before she snaps back to attention. Trish has always admired that about her, how she can come back to herself at a moment’s notice, putting aside all her own panic and worry for the good of the people.

Jessica insists she isn’t a hero, but Trish has never met anyone she wants to put her faith in more.

“Come on,” Jessica says, and Trish can hear in that every age she has ever been, can hear all the pain and vicious, viscous hate coursing through her. “Let’s take this asshole down.”

Trish pulls on Jessica’s clothes in the back of the car, wincing when she sees the mottled bruises lined across her ribs, the plastic wrap torn and stained with blood at the edges. “Should have fixed that up before we left,” she says, nodding toward it.

Jessica scoffs, sucking in a breath when she presses her palm against the worst of it. “When he’s dead, take me to the hospital,” she says, voice low and eyes distant.

She doesn’t think she’ll make it, Trish knows that, but Trish can’t think like that. “I will,” she promises quietly. Now is the moment for blind faith in this girl, the girl she loves more desperately than she has ever loved anything. She pulls her headphones on and plugs it into her phone. She hands it to Jessica and her hands don’t shake at all; she’s proud of herself for that. “Put something badass on, Jessica Jones,” she says, “make me feel like you.”

*

She makes it to the docks with her headphones on, fear coursing through her as she watches him scream at her, at Jessica, at everyone. She can only remember what has come before in fits and starts; she does not have the memory that Jessica does, only knows fits and flashes of what’s happened.

Later, she knows she’ll remember everything. Later, though, Kilgrave will be dead.

The headphones fall and she screams as she lands. For a long, desperate moment the world is silent, her ears ringing with the loss of the music. Her head hits the ground and that’s when everything catches up to her, when she can hear it all, the world rushing up to meet her.

_ Come on _ , she thinks, looking to Jessica for a second. Jessica, who’s walking toward Kilgrave with more determination than Trish has ever seen in anyone, yanking people apart but not taking her eyes off of him.  _ I love you _ , she thinks fiercely, groaning and pushing herself up.

“Stop!” Kilgrave screams, and Trish stops dead in her tracks. Around her, everyone else does the same.

Jessica stops.

There’s that same rushing in her ears and Trish closes her eyes trying not to be scared. Jessica won’t let him hurt her, not really. Jessica’s pretending. They’ve gone over the plan a thousand times but still she feels the impossible need to protect her, the need she’s always felt and never been able to act on.

(No one’s death matters when it comes to stopping Kilgrave, but Trish knows that in Jessica’s eyes she comes closest. It’s a comfort and a curse; she’d rather die than let this psycho live.)

“Come here, Patsy!” Kilgrave shouts, mocking and severe, and Trish can’t breathe for a second, like before, like when she took the pill. She gets herself under control and walks over to him, feet dragging against the ground.

She looks up at him and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen pure evil this close before. Every muscle in her is screaming to break something of his, to hurt him, to make him pay, but she can’t. Her arms are limp at her sides and all she can do, all she knows how to do, is hope.

He’s talking about horrific, awful things, torturing her like he did Jessica, and she knows he won’t do it, won’t actually hurt her like that; it’s not her he wants, not her he’s after. It’s Jessica, and she almost wishes that he’d taken her instead so she wouldn’t have to see the look of disgust, the sick look on her face.

_ I’m sorry _ , she thinks, impossibly, and she’s panting. She truly is sorry, sorry that she’s not like Jessica, that she can’t save herself, that she has to listen to him. He’s close enough that Trish can smell the cologne he’s bathed himself in and feel his breath on the back of her heck and she can’t do a fucking thing.

“Kiss me,” he tells her, finally; one last effort to get her Jessica to break. “Like you mean it.”

_ I could never mean it _ , she thinks, even as she knows she has to listen to him, and does as he says.

She hopes, prays, that this is all an act like they’d talked about, that Jessica hasn’t lost. She wants to protect her, has an impossible, desperate  _ need _ to protect her, but she can’t.

Everything after his pulling away is a blur; Jessica talking, Kilgrave walking toward her, Jessica  _ smiling _ and then – her final words, the words Trish has been dying to hear since they began all this.

“I love you,” she says, straight at Trish, and she knows they have, finally, succeeded.

She keeps her eyes open to watch him die, watches her hands twist his neck. In the end he goes down without fanfare; he dies like anyone else does, even though she expects his death to be bigger, to mean more.

In the end, he’s just a man; in the end, all that matters is he’s gone.

It takes her a second past the point of his death to start moving but then she’s racing toward Jessica, grabbing her in the tightest hug she can manage and sobbing out a breath against her arm.

“I wouldn’t have let him take you,” Jessica tells her, arms tight and protective around her. Her voice is low and even. If it were anyone else, Trish would worry about her, but she’s finally lost that slightly scared edge and for that she’s grateful.

“I know,” Trish tells her.

“Never,” Jessica says, pulling back, and it’s then that they hear the sirens, see the red and blue lights.

“Don’t go,” Trish begs, holding onto her hand tight, and then aims her, “Don’t take her away from me,” at the officers who step up.

Jessica shakes her head, smiling the same smile she always has, nothing like the one she’d sent toward Kilgrave. “I’ll be fine,” she promises. “Jeri owes me a favor.”

Trish watches her walk away, and everything in her hurts but she’s alive, desperately alive, and maybe that can be enough to tide her over until she gets her Jessica back.

*

In the end it takes less than a day, because Jeri Hogarth can do anything she sets her mind to and Jessica refuses to be trapped anywhere, after.

Trish waits for her, leaning against her car, arms crossed over her chest. She should have brought flowers or something, she thinks;  _ thanks for saving my life, have some roses _ . She would have done it but she knows without a doubt that Jessica would hit her for that. She can hear it now, her insistence that she didn’t do anything anyone else wouldn’t have done.

It might be true, Trish thinks, and Jessica would save the life of anyone but Trish most of all.

She walks out of the station and Trish wraps her in the biggest hug she can, burying her face in her shoulder. “You’re coming back to mine,” she says, voice soft.

“I have to clean up my apartment,” Jessica tells her in a quiet, rueful sort of voice. “It’s a little – destroyed, after someone demolished it.”

“Send the bill to Simpson,” Trish tells her, rolling her eyes and hiding her stupid smile. “Come to mine after, then, yeah?”

“If this is about thanking me…” Jessica starts, and her voice is a warning.

“It’s not,” Trish says quietly. Her fingers curl into the stupid leather jacket she’s wearing, the same she always wears. She’s had it since she was twenty, bought it for herself with her first well-earned money out of the house. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Jessica is quiet for a minute, long enough that Trish is worried, almost; it used to be that she could tell her anything but then that monster got hold of her and ever since then, the girl she knew has been a little distant from her, a wall between them.

“I don’t, either,” she finally says, voice careful like each word is being gently taken out of her throat. “But I’m sleeping on the couch. Your bed is awful.”

“Bought a new one, actually,” she tells her, pulling out of the hug and leaning against her car again. She doesn’t say anything about the past, about memories, but she’s sure it shows on her face.  _ I didn't want to keep the bed you slept in _ .

“Good,” Jessica says, jamming her hands into her pockets and looking up like she does when she’s feeling vulnerable. “Give me a ride back to mine, then?”

“Yeah,” Trish says softly, grabbing her keys and unlocking her car. There are a thousand things she wants to say; it feels like something has shifted between them, like things have to have changed.  _ You don’t need to stay away anymore. He’s gone _ .

Jessica puts her feet up on the dash as soon as she gets inside, closing her eyes.

Trish doesn’t make her talk, though as she drives the memory of him holding onto her is just out of reach, just beyond each next thought. She wants to ask, wants to see if this is how Jessica lives her life, but she can’t push the words out.

“I promise I’ll come by tonight,” Jessica says, the first time they’ve spoken since they got in the car. “I need a little – I just need. Time,” she finishes, mouth working for a second. “But I  _ will _ . I promise.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you promise like that before,” Trish says quietly, hands firm on the wheel. She doesn’t let herself look at her.

“Because this time I mean it,” Jessica tells her. “I will.”

Trish smiles and nods. She believes her as much as she doesn’t; she won’t hold it against her if she runs again, even if it’ll hurt as much as it always does. “I’ll make us dinner,” she says. It must come out more sarcastic than she means, because Jessica reaches out, hand on her arm.

“Hey,” she says, and Trish looks over at her. “I’ll be there. I don’t want – neither of us wants to be alone. I won’t do that to you.”

Trish’s heart feels too heavy for her chest, her everything going still and calm. “Okay,” she murmurs, and there’s a weight in her words that she can’t name. “Okay. I believe you.”

Jessica nods and sits back again, head pressed firmly against the headrest. “Good.”

*

Trish lets the dinner go cold before she allows herself to eat, two half-used candles slowly flickering to nothing. She eats without paying much attention to it, and she has the news on until she hears the newscaster say his name,  _ Kilgrave _ , in the voice that newscasters always use – ambivalent, apathetic, because he won’t ever have the chance to hurt her.

At least they did that. Even if Jessica never speaks to her again – and she knows that’s a possibility, because Jessica is who she is, because she won’t put Trish in harm’s way no matter how much she trains.

She washes her dishes and curls up on the couch under an old afghan with a million holes in it, the TV still on but not holding her attention.

As she’s about to fall asleep, her phone pings with a new call.

She reaches for it without much hope, and it takes her several seconds to realize who it is that’s talking to her –  _ Jessica _ , the screen reads.

She fumbles with it for a second, hands shaking when she picks up the phone. “Hi, Jess. How are you feeling?” 

She’s quiet. When Trish listens closely enough, she can hear her panting. “Sorry,” she says after a second. “Had a bit of an accident.” 

Immediately her mind fills with the worst thoughts. He’s dead, he wasn’t ever gone, he’s  _ hurt _ her --

Before she can voice any of them, Jessica laughs, sharp. “I just had to stop a little kid from getting hurt,” she tells her. “He nearly got hit by a car, had to take him to the hospital. He’s going to be okay.”

Trish makes a soft noise. “Are you still coming over?” she asks, crossing her legs under her. She tries to shake away the last bits of sleep. “I made you dinner, I can heat it up.”

Jessica laughs again. “Actually…” She trails off.

There are three knocks at Trish’s door. 

“That’s me,” Jessica tells her. “I’m at your door. I can tell you the story of your first kiss if you’d like me to prove it’s me.” 

Trish hangs up on her, getting the door open just a few seconds later. She grabs Jessica into a crushing hug, pressing her face against her shoulder. 

“Hey,” Jessica says. She’s softer now, sweeter than she usually is; Trish assumes it has to do with the trauma of the night as well as the late hour. She shuffles in and sets her bags on the ground, finally hugging Trish back. “What’s this?” 

She shakes her head. She doesn’t know how to voice anything that she’s thinking without coming across as a child who can’t deal with abandonment issues. She just clings to her.

They stand there for a long time -- how long, Trish doesn’t know. Finally she manages to pull herself away, wiping her eyes. 

Jessica is holding two plastic bags,  _ filled _ with styrofoam boxes. 

She laughs, wiping her nose. “You brought me dinner,” she says. 

“You saved my life,” Jessica tells her, kicking her boots off and walking into the kitchen, efficiently setting them two spots on the counter. “Had to repay the favor.” 

She’s too emotional for this but she rests a hand on Jessica’s lower back, rests her chin on her shoulder. “You  _ never _ bring me dinner,” she murmurs. “This must really be a special occasion.” 

Her hands go still on the knot of the bag she’s untying. “Yeah,” she says after a bit. “I should have.” She sounds closed-off, more than before. 

Trish’s heart sinks. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she tells her. “I only meant… thank you. That’s all.” 

Jessica smiles a little, just a flash of a thing. “You’re welcome,” she murmurs. “Let’s eat, though, yeah? I don’t want to pass out on your kitchen floor, leave you with blood everywhere.” 

Trish rolls her eyes and carries their plates to the couch, sitting down in her spot from earlier. “Here,” she says, holding up a corner of the afghan. 

Jessica gives her an unimpressed look. 

“Come here,” she insists. “The heat’s off and it’s going to get fucking freezing in here soon, and then I’m not going to want to share with you anymore.” 

She snorts, but she sits down next to her, stretching her legs out in front of her and resting her feet on the coffee table. “Why’s the heat off?” she asks. 

“I didn’t want to risk anything,” Trish says. “I only turned my TV on because I was curious if they’d say anything about tonight, everything else is off.” 

“Did they say anything?” Jessica asks, quiet. 

“Yeah,” Trish murmurs, picking at her food. “Nothing about you, though. That’s good, isn’t it?” She turns to look at her. 

Jessica doesn’t answer for a minute. 

Trish feels like she’s fucked something up. “I’m sorry,” she starts.

Jessica shakes her head. “I’m glad I wasn’t mentioned,” she says. 

Trish doesn’t say anything in response, just pulls her close, so that her head rests on her shoulder. They sit in relative silence, Jessica tracing patterns on the worn afghan until she falls asleep, her hand going limp and hair falling in her face. 

Trish tucks her in right there on the couch, moving her as slowly as possible so as not to wake her. It doesn’t work; Jessica stirs but keeps her eyes closed, and when Trish gives her a kiss on the forehead she smiles, the smallest thing. 

“Good night,” Trish tells her, and gets a hum in response. She pushes back her hair, smiling for a long second, before she drags herself into her room, keeping the door open and the hall light on, just in case either of them need it.

*

In the morning, Jessica is still there, still on her couch. She’s awake and scrolling through her phone; there aren’t any empty glasses near her. She can only hope to keep that up, encourage it, though she doesn’t want to get ahead of herself.

Trish sits down and tugs Jessica’s feet into her lap, smiling at her. “Morning,” she says, squeezing her leg. 

Jessica laughs, turning to hide her face against the pillow while she grumbles  _ good morning _ back, and Trish feels -- well, she feels hopeful.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @ georgiecrusoe on tumblr and @ haloutines on twitter, if you want to talk :)


End file.
